


all this time I was finding myself (didn't know I was lost)

by megyal



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint dreams of Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all this time I was finding myself (didn't know I was lost)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lil_grl_lost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_grl_lost/gifts).



> Title and lyrics from ['Wake Me Up' by Aloe Blacc](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_o6axAseak). Writing a theme with 'dream' as the prompt made me want to try every trope listed by the recipient, but I definitely didn't get them all. I didn't quite follow the prompt (it's in the notes at the end). I tried to tie it in to the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D storyline, but very sparingly.

_i. guided by a beating heart_

Natasha saw right through Clint's every attempt at normalcy, but thankfully, she didn't bring it up until they were at the range; just the two of them, training under a new programme designed by Steve and Stark (mostly Stark, if the man was to be believed). After the last attack-robot had been penned into a corner by her sting and Clint's arrows, she turned towards him. 

"Want to talk about it?" she asked, adjusting something on one of her gauntlets. She kept her gaze focused on her wrists and for that alone, Clint adored her.

He took a deep inhale and on the exhale, said: "I've been having weird dreams."

Natasha nodded, switching to the other gauntlet. "About?"

"Coulson," Clint told her and tried a weak smile when her eyebrows twitched upwards. "Yeah. Like I said: weird. Thought I'd been over those months ago, you know?"

"Details," she commanded, finally looking up at him as she placed her hands on her hips. Under her unwavering regard, Clint straightened up a little. 

"Well, there's a lot of _blue_ ," he said and nodded at the way her focus sharpened on him. "I know, I know. I've been to the geek patrol over at HQ, and got Banner to do some scans. I don't have any traces of Tesseract energy on me, and there's no evidence of mind-control." He heard his voice shake a little on that last phrase and pressed his lips together, waiting for the cold panic deep inside his soul to subside. Even now, six months after the battle of New York, it still battered at him. He lived with it, but it sank its teeth into him at the oddest moments. At least he hadn't frozen on any recent mission...yet.

Natasha said, "Okay. " Her gaze slid away from his; she stood there in her white t-shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms, and simply _breathed_ for a few beats. She breathed the same way in the middle of a mission, when she tried to wrangle available weapons and targets in her head. 

"Okay," she repeated and looked right at him again. "So it's _all_ blue?"

"Mostly," Clint said. He wrinkled his nose. "It feels blue, but it doesn't feel like the same blue that...that Loki had."

Natasha nodded, her expression unreadable. Clint smiled at her, just to see if she would return it and she did: one of her nice smiles emerged in a brief flash, making her seem far younger than she was supposed to be. It was gone almost immediately, but Clint felt reassured.

"I dream of Coulson," he told her, spinning an arrow in his left hand. "Maybe three or four times by now. We talk."

"About what?" Nat tilted her head, a slight furrow forming between her eyebrows. "About missions?"

Clint lifted one shoulder in an almost helpless shrug. "I don't remember right now, but it's definitely not about missions. Maybe pets? Types of food I like to cook? I dunno."

"Mundane things," she mused and Clint nodded. "So, basically, the same conversations we had when he was alive."

Clint laughed at that. It didn't feel like a sad laugh, nor a happy one. Just a laugh that he had to let out, remembering how normal Coulson could be sometimes; how funny he was, how he liked a good drink and quiet company, how he looked when firing a weapon or the flat timbre of his voice when asking Clint to stop chattering on the comms. Just a laugh to acknowledge all of that, because if Clint didn't laugh, he'd break.

"They're better than the other dreams," he pointed out, and began to break down his bow. "I'd rather have a Coulson-dream than one of those any day."

Natasha hummed tunelessly and unfastened her gauntlets, watching as Clint packed up his gear in the fancy box that Stark had supplied. They walked to the closed door of the room, but before it slid open, she stopped and turned to him. "You want company tonight?"

"Yeah." Clint didn't even hesitate in his reply. "Some company would be real nice."

\---

Natasha reclined on the side of Clint's bed that he didn't really use, dressed for sleep in her favourite at-home pajamas: worn and fluffy and comfortable. A large book balanced in her hands, pages softly illuminated under the light of the lamp which coiled out from a recess in the headboard and bent over her shoulder. Clint lay on his side facing her, hands folded under his cheek; the rest of his room was dark, the door to his sitting area slightly ajar. He'd been kind of astonished when Stark had shown him this suite, larger than a few of the houses he'd been through as a kid, and told him that it was 'all his'.

"I'm can't--" he'd started in protest, but Stark had tapped him on the lips in that presumptuous manner in which he did everything. Clint had picked up the scent of Stark's cologne, something warm and full-noted, yet subtle. Clint liked it.

"Nope," Stark had said, and actually pinched one of Clint's cheeks, smiling his knife-edged smile. "Not going through this with you, got that? I had to argue with Cap and B-Bans over theirs and I'm _tired_ and I still have a suit I need to work on, which is really a nice way of saying I'm going to have to rip out all the circuitry and teach it how to be a real boy again so, you know, shut up, it's _yours_."

"Thanks," Clint said and Stark had actually blinked at him as if he'd been expecting more of a fight. Clint huffed a little and looked around, nodding at the bold orange of one wall, surrounded by earthy-shades in the furniture and hardwood floor. "And I even I like the colours."

Stark had squinted at him from behind a pair of ridiculous shades and then shrugged. "Well, welcome home and all that. Laters."

He'd left Clint to wander around his room, staring at the massive bed for a long moment, before heading back out to what Stark thought was a kitchenette but was an actual kitchen. It was, by far, the nicest place he'd ever been in and he allowed himself to get comfortable. Who knew how long he could have such luxury at his fingertips?

He was comfortable right now, lying in bed with Natasha reading beside him, comfortable and safe. He felt quiet on the inside, probably because dinner had been so laid-back: Thor had been out with Jane, Stark had been dragged out to a fundraiser with Pepper and Steve, and so it had just been him, Nat and Bruce. They'd had a simple meal in the TV room, munching through bowls of pasta and chickpeas that Bruce had whipped up, guessing the answers on a game-show. Bruce got all of them right, no surprise there, and they'd headed to bed early.

Under his soft blanket, Clint felt almost too peaceful to sleep. "Mind some music?" he asked in a bare murmur. Nat shook her head and Clint turned his face towards the ceiling, even though he knew J.A.R.V.I.S. would hear him even if he'd been under the bed.

"Jay?"

"Yes, Clint?"

Natasha let out an amused huff at their familiar exchange. Clint had heard Stark call his A.I. 'Jay', and he thought it was cute. He'd asked if he could use the nickname, though; both Stark and J.A.R.V.I.S. had seemed pleasantly surprised at Clint's request.

"Why are you asking _me_?" Stark had said, making no attempt to hide his small grin. "Ask the J-Bird."

"I don't mind if you wish to call me 'Jay', Agent Barton." J.A.R.V.I.S.'s well-modulated tones had had a streak of warmth. "If you will allow me the honour of your first name."

Now, Clint ventured: "Did Coulson have any...well, music he liked to listen to? When he was babysitting Tony?"

"He did," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied without pause. "Agent Coulson was partial to Boccherini's sonatas for the cello."

"Yeah?" Clint snuggled a little closer to Natasha's side. He felt her dangerous fingers brush at his temple, a light touch before she removed her hand. "Could you play some for me?"

Music flowed into the space right above Clint's head; he listened, feeling a half-smile tug against one corner of his face. Not something he'd listen to, for sure, and he'd never heard Coulson play stuff like this on their many road-trips. It was a bit boring at first, but the last thought Clint had before he flowed down into sleep that it actually got better.

Much better.

\--

"Oh, nice," Coulson said, turning to smile at Clint. "This is pretty good, isn't it?"

Seated beside him, Clint blinked. It was kind of dark in here and he waited a little for his eyes to acclimate to the gloom. He sat close to Coulson on what seemed to be a wide concrete step, an aisle; padded chairs descended in tiers down to a large stage. An auditorium, the main-lights dimmed for the ongoing performance. A _packed_ auditorium, considering the persons standing behind them, and the many heads almost blocking their view. Three cellists and two violinists sat on the stage in a semicircle, their arms moving in that smoothly coordinated dance of musicians as they released their music into the air over Clint's head. 

" _Boccherini_ ," Clint blurted and someone in a chair beside him went _shhhh_! "Sheesh, sorry. This is Boccherini," he whispered right into Coulson's ear. Coulson did a quick little shiver, as if Clint's breath had tickled him.

"Yeah," he said, still grinning. "I'm surprised you know the composer."

"I know things!" Clint hissed at him and he gazed at Coulson, seeing him better now. "Why do you look like that?"

Coulson glanced down at his jeans and baseball shirt. He had rolled up the long blue sleeves up his arms, showing off their wiry strength. "Look like what? I _own_ jeans," he said, his tone fondly withering. "I told you I didn't dress in ties all the time."

"No, its…" Clint stared at him. Instead of the receding hairline that Clint knew well, Coulson's hair fell in a messy fringe over his brow; his face was a little rounder, a lot less worn. There were no lines in the corners of his eyes or his mouth. "Where are we?" he asked.

"At school," Coulson said. "College of Fine Arts. " He must have said the name, but to Clint's ears, that had been blurred.

"I've never been to college," Clint told him and without thinking about what he was doing, he put his hand into Coulson's, squeezing lightly as their fingers laced together. "You know that."

"Of course I know," Coulson said and squeezed back. When Clint tried to pull away, reluctantly, Coulson held on. His hand was cool in Clint's. "I remember. I think you would have excelled, though." For a moment, his voice lost that unusually fresh quality and became deeper, more mellow. 

"This is a dream," Clint said, and used his free hand to touch the side of Coulson's face. Coulson's expression was one of expectation and muted delight, and his thumb stroked slowly along the side of Clint's finger. "Coulson, you're breaking my goddamn heart."

Coulson blinked at him, and then he leaned close, head tilting slowly to one side. "I didn't know. I'm sorry about that," he murmured, his mouth brushing against Clint's as he spoke. A sharp sensation ran through Clint, from his chest to his groin, lighting him until he felt his bones glow calm-blue. He parted his lips and Coulson's tongue flickered into his mouth, shocking him all over again with pleasure. He had always wanted to kiss Coulson. This was wonderful.

He pulled away, cheeks warm. Coulson's eyes seemed to shine sapphire in the dark. Clint ducked, licked his lips and then looked at the stage to center himself, to regain his balance, and then stared. 

Natasha danced to the music, lit by the spot-light. She wore a dress made of gauzy turquoise layers, which floated around her as she spun. She flowed with power into the story of the music, stringing poetry between her hands as she reached, leaping over notes as they stacked indigo across the stage.

Clint sighed as he watched her dance, and Phil's hand was perfect in his. He had critique in studio tomorrow, and he wasn't completely satisfied with his model or designs, but he was okay for now.

Then, he was on the stage, the cello resting warmly between his legs; the fingers of one hand cavorted with firm confidence over the fingerboard, the other hand moving the bow to draw that cobalt sound from the throat of the instrument. Coulson, inexplicably and logically standing a little behind his chair, took the bow from his hand and he plucked at the strings without pause. He closed his eyes, but the blue light seeped between the seam of his eyelids. A shadow fell across his face, blocking the light. He opened his eyes and Natasha stared down at him, her dress now like a flame around her body.

"Wake up," she said, her voice hard as she stared over Clint's shoulder at Coulson. Coulson murmured something, but Clint couldn't hear it over his cello. Natasha blinked, for her the equivalent of taking a step back. Then, her gaze dropped to Clint's face and there was a softness around her eyes and lips that Clint had never seen before.

"Little bird," she said, in Russian; Clint understood her quite easily, even though he knew only a few phrases in Russian, and _little bird_ was not one of them. "Wake up."

The blue light dimmed, and then went out.

\--

_ii. wish that I could stay forever this young_

It felt like a mission debriefing with the entire team, even though they sat in the main TV room in the Tower and nearly everyone was dressed in their version of pajamas. Agent Sitwell sat easily in his armchair, one leg crossed over the other. He was the only one in the room dressed for business, because obviously agents of a certain rank _slept_ in suits; they probably hovered a few inches over the surface of their beds, just as Clint liked to inform the baby agents. A small line had formed between Sitwell's eyebrows and it had deepened as Natasha related the dream she had shared with Clint.

"So you both dreamed the same thing?" Tony said after Natasha finished speaking, his own eyebrows set at an incredulous arch. He poked at Bruce's side with one bare foot; Bruce, sitting cross-legged on the soft carpet, swayed like a reed in the wind. "Thoughts, Beebop?"

"A lot of thoughts," Bruce admitted, his hair tousled and clothing rumpled in that way only Bruce could tousle and rumple. "But none seem possible."

"Possibility is an expanded term in our field of work," Sitwell said in a very mild way. From his own perch on the loveseat beside Steve, Clint looked at Sitwell with bleary eyes. Since he'd been assigned as the Avengers' hander, Sitwell's infamous temper and cursing had diminished by a very large percentage, and he'd been more...well, Coulson-like. Clint appreciated the attempt. 

"We could be dealing with Tesseract technology again," Jane said, her voice carrying a tinge of excitement. She shared a sofa with Thor, one of his favourite shirts engulfing her tiny frame as it always did when she visited for a sleep-over. Thor put an arm around her, and she rested one hand on his as she bubbled on: "The blue light may be indicative of that."

Sitwell sighed. "Then we're dealing with a very dangerous situation, here. Two high-level agents--"

"Sir," Clint cut in. "It didn't feel like being under Loki's thrall. It felt… _free_. And I should know." He didn't say that being under Loki's thrall had been sort of a freedom unto itself, but his dreams with Coulson had been a different level completely.

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Bruce, Tony and Jane had identical expressions on their faces, as if undertaking very long and intense calculations. Thor seemed extremely sympathetic, whereas Natasha and Steve were completely blank.

For his part, Agent Sitwell had a very resigned air, and he glanced down at his arms, smoothing down the material of his sleeves.

"I'll need to talk to Director Fury," he finally said and stood up. "If you have any more dreams in the meantime, report them to me. And try not to share dreams with anyone else."

He departed in that loping stride of his, J.A.R.V.I.S. politely opening doors and closing them as he went through. Clint kept his gaze lowered to the floor as silence spun out around them.

Steve broke the contemplative atmosphere quite easily. "Let's go try out one of those dream-shares," he said with gentle determination and Thor nodded, his own eyes glinting. "We'll figure this out, as a team," and Steve looked at Clint as if making a promise. "I think _you're_ the key, Clint."

Clint didn't really think that he any sort of key, but it was hard to say no to Steve. He looked around at their expectant expressions and nodded. 

"For once I agree completely with the Capsicle," Tony put in. "Let's all snuggle. I'll spoon you, Cap, stop begging me with your eyes and--"

Bruce split through Tony's rambling before Steve could reply with a cutting remark. "But we're not sure if we all get into the dream. Natasha and Clint are close, that may be the reason why she was able to slip in."

"I'm not sure I slipped in as much as I was pulled," Natasha said. "I don't have dreams like that." She considered Clint with a small smile playing over her mouth. "It was very nice."

Clint pursed his lips and didn't blush.

"Coulson's spirit is strong." Thor's tone was solid with certainty and a rush of pride filled Clint on Coulson's behalf. "And he is reaching out to Clint. We must _try_."

"I'm not sure if I'll go in. But I'll monitor you all, with J.A.R.V.I.S.," Jane offered, smoothing down the collar of her shirt with quick, almost nervous movements. Thor squeezed her a little, obviously delighted with her declaration of assistance. 

"Now, all we have to do is fall asleep again." Steve ran one hand over his fair hair. He looked keyed-up, though; probably the result of being urgently roused from bed by Natasha. 

Bruce smiled, slow and warm. "I might have a tea for that."

\--

Clint stood on the beach, shading his eyes from the sunlight. Black sand pressed against his bare soles and he felt the warmth of the day draping companionably over his skin. He glanced down at himself and grinned: he sported a pair of shorts over his skinny legs, the flower-print the ultimate statement of vacation. To one side, the bright azure water of the oceans broke against the sand in white curls; at his other side, trees stood in a thick line, guardians of a forest filled with the sounds of insects, birds and small animals. Mountains rose up into the distance, impossibly green.

"This is so nice!" someone said in appreciative tones and he turned to see two dark-haired boys standing behind him, as alike as twins. They were dressed in the same kind of shorts as Clint, and sleeveless shirts. One of them squinted in a very familiar way, while the other offered a shy smile.

"Tony?" Clint asked, amused as the squinter narrowed his eyes even more. "And...Bruce?"

"Nope," the squinter said. "I'm Bruce. Tony doesn't really talk much here. It's weird."

The shy smiler, _Tony_ , ducked his head. He dug a toe into the coarse sand, and reached out to take Bruce's hand. Bruce squeezed his fingers lightly, and raised his free hand to jerk a thumb over his shoulder. "Steve's in the water. So's Natasha and Thor."

Laughter reached Clint's ears, as if someone quickly turned up the volume of a comm-device, and he blinked at the three children playing in the water. A girl with long dark hair was winning a splash-war with two boys, her mocking laughter spiralling towards the mountains. Clint looked closely at her; he'd always imagined that Natasha as a kid would have the same bright-red hair as an adult. One of the boys pointed towards Clint, and the three of them stomped their way out of the water and sprinted over to where Clint stood with Tony and Bruce. They were completely dry by the time they arrived. 

"Hi, Clint!" Steve chirped, his smile bright. He was _tiny_ , so very skinny and short. He nearly toppled over when Natasha gave him a friendly nudge, but his giggles were loud and infectious. Steve sported the same type of sleeveless shirt as everyone else, but a strap slid off one narrow shoulder. His gaze tracked over to Tony, and he stopped chuckling to stare. "Tony?"

"Yeah," Tony said in a low voice. With hesitant steps, he sidled over to Steve and fixed the strap. "There," he said, and then fled back to Bruce's side. Steve considered him with wide eyes, and Tony kept his gaze down on the sand, the sides of his lips tugging up a little. 

"Now, where shall we find Coulson?" Thor said, fists planted on his hips. He dipped a princely nod towards the shadow-filled line of trees. "That seems like a good place to start."

Clint let out an amused huff of air. "Dark creepy forest, sure. We can do that."

"It's not _that_ dark," Thor protested and everyone made varying noises of agreement or negation. Natasha actually turned towards the forest, spinning on one heel like a dancer.

"That's true, it's not that dark," a new voice chimed in and they all started. A new boy stood right in their midst, as if he'd been there all along and they'd just now noticed him. The boy gazed at them with a pleased little grin, his long brown hair curling against his cheeks; a blue light glowed in his chest, right over his heart. It seemed to pulse. "Hello, Avengers."

"Phil," Clint said and reached out to grip Coulson's arm. His skin seemed very cool under Clint's fingers, almost clammy. "Hey."

"Hey," Phil replied. "It's so nice to see you again." His voice was absolutely lovely, falling on Clint's ears like a flower on grass. 

Steve pointed at Phil's chest with one ridiculously small hand. "Say, what's that? Kinda looks like Tony's arc reactor."

Phil glanced down at his chest, with the clinical air of a mild-mannered medic. "Oh, that. I've always had it."

"No, my friend," Thor said and put one hand on Phil's shoulder. "You were pierced there by my brother's sceptre and for that, I am deeply sorry."

A frown marred Phil's face and the day darkened as well. The air around them cooled, and the sea lost that brilliant blue shade. "I was….stabbed?"

"You were _killed_ ," Tony said, and his low voice had a hint of the sharpness from his adulthood. "Fury said." He folded in his lips as if making a vow to never speak again. Phil blinked rapidly. The light under his shirt cycled up to a brightness that was almost too much to take, but Clint kept his gaze fixed on Phil's face.

"I'm here in Tahiti with all of you," Phil said. "I'm _dreaming_."

"You're…dreaming," Clint repeated, his heart bursting with hope. He hadn't wanted to let himself believe. "You're _alive_."

"He's dreaming _us_ ," Bruce said and turned to face Tony. "The scepter Loki had, it used Tesseract energy, right?"

"It could create dimensional rifts," Tony murmured. When Steve gazed at him with a species of surprised interest, Tony's cheeks went red and he mumbled something under his breath. 

Bruce nodded as if Tony had spoken quite clearly. "Yeah, you're right. And what if a dream is kind of a dimension? If there's traces of Tesseract energy in Coulson, we could track it. We could find him."

"Or we could ask Director Fury," Natasha said and folded her arms across her chest. "Send Steve in, Fury likes Steve the most."

"Hey," Steve protested, very weakly. He scratched the side of his nose and shrugged. "Okay, he does, but _still_."

"Did I really kiss you in my other dream?" Phil asked Clint with breathless wonderment; blue light seeped out of his eyes and spilled over his lashes. Clint heard someone's quick inhalation, but he ignored them to reach out and cup Phil's sweet face in his hands. The light trickled over his thumbs, smooth like water, thick like blood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha pinch Bruce and Tony. They faded from view, and Clint knew that they'd wake up in the TV room, sprawled on blankets and pillows spread on the floor. She pinched Steve, who pouted before he faded, and then turned to pinch Thor.

"We shall meet again, Friend Coulson!" he shouted, his voice echoing long after he was gone. Clint barely turned his head to see Natasha drop a smart salute before pinching her own cheek. She nodded as she faded, and Cheshire-cat like, her dark hair was the last to go. When Clint returned his focus to Phil, his older battle-scarred hands now rested on Phil's adult, careworn and much beloved face.

"This isn't Tahiti?" Phil asked, and he closed his eyes. "All I have is dreams."

"You have _me_ ," Clint told him and kissed his cheek. "You have the others. All you have to do is wake up. We'll be there."

Phil smiled, eyes still closed. "I hope that's a promise you'll keep, Agent."

Clint kissed his other cheek, and then his lips. He reveled in the taste of Phil's mouth and held him close, sliding his hands down his suit-covered back, just the way he always wanted. Phil made a soft sound in the back of his throat and he broke away to tuck his face into the curve of Clint's neck. He let out a shaky breath and then inhaled, deeply. His chest expanded against Clint's, and when he exhaled, Clint felt the blue of Phil's breath cooling his skin. 

"All right," Phil murmured as the light painted the world around them, oscillating in time with the steady beat of Phil's heart. "Wake up."

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> This was the prompt I tried: "coma!Phil (post Avengers or AU) stuck in a dream world… maybe the events of Iron Man to Avengers are a dream?"


End file.
